Walking Out of Town
by TheInkgirl
Summary: Ed didn't know where he wanted to go.  But he had a list of places he didn't want to go. 1: The Colonel's office-the Colonel could wait for his stupid report...  2. Risembool-Well, that was only half a lie...  So Ed kept walking out of town.


_A/N: This is several months old; and, as I mention at the end, I was writing completely on the fly. After writing it, it was so long and disorganized that I didn't want to post it. I recently reread it, though, and found, to my surprise, that I actually liked it. It is still a sprawling and unholy mess; and I still may, at some point in the future, remove it from this sight, chop it up, clean it up, and rewrite it. But for the time being, I enjoy it; so I hope you do to. Thanks for reading!_

_~TheInkgirl_

_Feb 16, 2011_

The dark, wet, November day was finally turning to dusk. The sky was an ugly brownish-grey; and water dripped from eaves of shop-come-apartments and the city's busses in large drops that matched the color of the sky.

Ed sloshed through muddy puddles with his coat pulled up over his head. Eastern was gloomy and backwards at the best of times, he thought. And today, clearly, wasn't the best of times. An overlarge bus (that would have been retired long ago, if the city had been willing to pay for a replacement) rumbled past, covering the diminutive teenager in more slosh.

Ed's first instinct was to yell at them. But it wasn't really fun to scream at people when they couldn't hear you; so he settled for sending the bus the patented Elric death-glare. After his glare had bored a hole through the entire bus and singed the hairs on the back of the driver's head (metaphorically speaking), Ed decided it was time to move on.

Until he realized he wasn't sure which direction to move. He looked around the four-way stop, wondering which street would lead somewhere he wanted to go. The prospects weren't very good. None of the streets looked any warmer, more inviting, or more Elric-welcoming than any of the others. Rats. He stood with his hood pulled over his head at the stop until he started shivering. Ed glanced around then, realizing that the crowds had definitely thinned, and were still thinning; the lighted windows multiplying, even in this foreign-work unit of the city.

Ed decided he didn't want to be the last person on the street (a spot which was usually reserved, in his mind, for the local drunk).

He shoved his hands into his pockets and picked a street at random. _Let's just hope the city pays to keep the streetlights working._

More or less directionless, Ed decided that if he couldn't pick a place he wanted to go, he could at least mentally tick off destinations he didn't want.

The Colonels office.

He would give his report later. The mission he'd just gone on was draining; the official he'd been sent to inspect a much more intelligent and manipulative b_ than Ed had imagined. That was why he'd sent Al to Risembool before he was done. There was no telling what the guy, Acheron Byron, would have done, had he gotten his hands on a novelty like a bound soul. It was also the reason he'd been three days late and only gotten into the city on the 4:30 (which had, predictably, come in after five). The Colonel could wait for his stupid report. If he complained, then _he _could deal with the next Byron that showed up.

Risembool.

That was only a half-lie. He'd hoped to finish the Byron job a few days ago. He would've delivered his report and been back with Al by now, it didn't matter where, really. Ed liked Risembool. He wouldn't have minded a quick visit there. But, he _would_ have left before today. Risembool, and many other of the backcountry shires and rural peoples still observed the Harvest festival today, even though the city people had long ago ceased to do so.

There were a lot of things Ed felt like expressing to the damp, _late_, and annoying world, at the moment. But thanks wasn't one of them.

Anyway, it was a festival he and Al no longer celebrated. Or if they did, it was a toast to each other in one of their many hotel rooms before bed. Risembool had its traditions, its family gatherings, its celebrations, none of which the Elrics observed any more. Ed had a sneaking suspicion that Al wished they still did. But, to Ed's mind, that was just one of the things they'd left when they burned down their house.

Oh well, Ed grumbled. Al, for one, got his wish; Harvest Thanks in Risembool. Well, hurrah for him.

Ed stopped under a streetlight and glared around, trying to get his bearings. The office was surely closed by now; and he was getting tired. There really wasn't much sense in wandering around wet when he didn't have to.

Ed squinted in both directions. Unfamiliar buildings. Streetlights, several of which were burned out. Muddy, rutted road. Perfect. This street could be one of any number in East City. Ed began to wish he hadn't just stormed away from the train station, to anywhere but work.

The wind picked up and Ed shivered. It was probably going to rain again. The first freezing drop landed on Ed's nose and he yelped.

Well, he decided, if he just kept walking, he'd come to another crossroads eventually. And with a crossroads, came street signs (unless, the city had decided not to pay for those either). And he could work from there.

With his new plan in motion, Ed decided to be as miserable as possible, and cursed every puddle and rut and ache until he was cursing up a storm and beginning to enjoy himself. He got so carried away that he didn't notice the car until it was almost on top of him.

He jerked straight up as the car slowed and began to pull up beside him. Ed swore under his breath and transmuted his automail arm into a blade. Just a precaution, he hoped. But cars pulling up behind one in a dark, deserted street (especially when just about nobody in your acquaintance has ever driven one of the things) is rarely a good sign. And, when you were Edward Elric, anything that could mean you harm, usually did.

The window rolled down and someone spoke from the interior.

"Enjoying the weather, Little Red Riding Hood?"

Edward went from tense to raging in ten seconds flat. He knew that voice.

"B_! What do you think? I'm LOVING stomping around all night in the rain because I got back late from a job YOU sent me on. And why are YOU STALKING me?"

"You must be confused, Red. I don't send little girls anywhere they don't _want_ to go," the Colonel was grinning. As far as comebacks went, it wasn't exactly sparkling. But it would make his subordinate mad. And that was all he was really hoping to accomplish.

"YOU CAN CALL ME A LITTLE GIRL WHEN, AND ONLY WHEN, YOU'VE SPENT OVER A WEEK TAKING EVERYTHING A MEGALOMANIACAL PSYCHOPATH CAN THROW AT YOU AND SPENT ALL NIGHT WALKING AROUND IN THE FREEZING RAIN!"

"So you _weren't_ walking out here for fun?" Roy smirked. "Sorry, Little Red. But that's the first idea that comes to mind when your subordinate is playing hooky."

Ed glared.

"Who's playing hooky?" he growled.

"While I imagine 'all night walking in the freezing rain' was an exaggeration, it does seem to mean a few hours at least. Work hours."

"WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHAT YOU CAN DO WITH YOUR 'WORK HOURS?' YOU CAN TAKE THEM AND STICK THEM UP YOUR-!"

"As sparkling a conversationalist as you are," the Colonel cut in. "I believe this conversation would be better continued in the car."

Ed balked.

"Wh—" he started. The Colonel reached over, opening the passenger door.

"If you think I'm going anywhere with you—" Edward started, working back up to a yell.

The Colonel answered in his most annoying, patronizing, tone of voice.

"If you would rather wander around for the _rest_ of the night in the freezing rain, or until the next car comes to pick you up (which would probably not end very well for you), you will get in—"

Ed weighed his options briefly, before opting to yell in the B_ Colonel's face, instead of from five feet away.

"—and thank me for it."

Ed glared at him.

"Keep dreaming, Colonel," he grumbled. He got a perverse pleasure out of dripping filthy, freezing water all over the interior of the car.

The Colonel only spared him one irritated glance as he got back up to speed. Ed glanced at the dials and wheel, interested. He could count the times he'd been in a car on the fingers of one hand. And he had never been close enough to see how to drive one.

"I didn't know you had a car," Ed said, without thinking.

"Like it?" the Colonel grinned.

Ed reddened, angry (both at the Colonel's superiority, and at himself for saying anything).

"Enough to wonder who would be stupid enough to own it and never use it," Ed retorted.

Mustang shrugged.

"Gas costs money."

Ed rolled his eyes.

"I forgot what a cheapskate you were."

Ed went back to watching the gears and dials, wondering how exactly the vehicle worked. Winry would love this thing. Of course, she'd want to take it apart (which would serve the B_ right) and—Ed stopped. Winry and Al and Aunt Pinako were in Risembool, right now, sitting around the Harvest Thanks table. Something in his throat stung.

Ed started when he realized that the Colonel had asked his a question.

"Did you say something?" he grumbled.

The Colonel, unperturbed, repeated himself.

"Do you want to know how it works?"

"How what works?" Edward started, his head still lost somewhere in Risembool. He shook it.

"The car."

Edward blinked. Then he narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out how this would turn into a joke.

When he didn't answer the Colonel went on.

"This," he said, one hand resting on a rod, "Changes your direction. The directions are marked beside it."

He kept one hand on the wheel and his eyes outside as he gestured to the letters, signaling different gears. Grudgingly, Edward glanced at them.

"The dial on the left-," Mustang went on.

Edward looked.

"No. further left," The Colonel said, eyes still on the road.

Ed spared him a glare (how many eyes did the Colonel have anyway?) before flicking his gaze to the correct dial.

"—shows you how fast you're going. The—"

The Colonel stopped suddenly, actually turning to look at Ed this time, and slowing the car to a halt.

"Where am I taking you?" he asked. Ed blinked, a little confused.

"I thought we were going to the dorms," he said.

"Well we _weren't_ headed that way," Mustang said.

"Well excuse me for not having an internal compass to match your unequaled brilliance," Ed snarled. "Where _were_ we going?"

"My house," Mustang said, driving forward again.

"WHY THE HECK WOULD I WANT TO GO THERE?" Ed yelled.

"I'm sure you wouldn't," The Colonel replied, calmly. "But I was on my way home when I picked you up. The dorms are on the other side of Eastern."

"Fat lot of help you are," Ed cursed, grabbing for the door handle. Mustang reached his spare arm over to pull Ed's hand away from the handle.

"If you would direct your attention to the dial on the far left, the one we were talking about, you will see that we are currently going thirty miles an hour, a speed at which it is highly inadvisable to attempt to jump out of a moving vehicle."

"THIS IS KIDNAPPING!"

The Colonel shot Ed a glance.

"Honestly who wouldn't want to kidnap you, knowing how pleasant you are to be around," he retorted.

"I bet I can make it," Ed snarled gleefully, grabbing the handle again.

"For god's sake, Fullmetal," Roy said. "Cool down. Driving to the dorms would still be faster than walking there; you really _would_ be walking all night in the rain."

Mustang suddenly took a sharp turn, speeding in a rather different direction then they had been going. Ed relaxed slightly, thinking that this was meant he'd won; and to the dorms they would go.

"After a quick stop," The Colonel finished with a hint of gleeful malice at getting the last word in, as the pulled up in front of a house.

"D_ you," Ed snarled, as Mustang braked and stepped out of the car. Edward came barreling after.

"What do we need to stop for?"

The Colonel went around to the back of the car, lifting a couple of boxes out.

"Dropping a few things off," he said, gesturing at the boxes.

"And they can't wait?" Ed fumed.

"Not for the dormitories they can't," The Colonel answered, walking towards the house.

Despite the hour, and his annoyance, Edward was mildly interested. He'd never seen (or imagined) The Colonel's house; but, if he'd had to guess, it would have been a Spartan apartment, as annoyingly clean as the Colonel was. But, what little he could make out of the house was a good deal lager than an apartment, though not a particularly big house. It looked old, and was a dingy sort of white. Actually, it looked like an abandoned country house (it wasn't that dissimilar from the way houses were built in Risembool) that had had the misfortune to have the city grow up around it and leave thirty years' worth of city grime coating it. Edward thought something about it felt empty and full of ghosts. But then he shook his head, annoyed. Projecting your gloom on someone else's house more than bordered on the ridiculous.

"Door."

Edward jerked around at the Colonel's voice.

"What?" he asked.

"Could you get the door?" Roy asked, shortly.

"Get your own door. I didn't want to see it in the first place," Edward growled.

"We could stand here arguing while my hands are full. But that probably wouldn't end very well for you," Roy said. Edward recalled his earlier warning (threat?) using the same phrase and rolled his eyes. He tried the door.

"Locked," he snarled.

"There's a key over the doorframe."

"Seriously?" Ed asked. "How creative."

"Nobody is interested in breaking in," Mustang said, shifting his weight. "Are you sure you aren't just stalling? Surely you're not too short to reach-?"

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE'D DROWN IN A RAINDROP?"

"And nearly did," Roy grinned. Ed got the key (even though it _was _a hard reach) and jammed it into the lock, opening it.

Roy marched right into the dark house carrying his boxes. Ed followed, blinking in the gloom. It was hard to see. But what he saw of the inside of the house kind of matched the outside, old, unused, and very, very dusty.

A light flicked on and Ed glanced around, not seeing the B_ Colonel anywhere.

"Come in," Mustang called (rather unnecessarily). "While we're here, you might as well dry off."

Ed followed the voice down the hall, glancing around. These old things surely didn't belong to Mustang. They just didn't match him at _all_. Old furniture that wasn't even nice, pictures that Ed didn't want to examine too closely. Mustang had probably just wanted more privacy than the military dorms offered (most likely so he could have some space for all those floozies that seemed to hang off him) and had rented this old place already furnished; that was the only way to explain all this junk. Then Ed wondered why it even mattered.

Ed walked out of the hallway and into a small kitchen, currently brightly lit, but rather cold; he could see into the large living room beyond. The Colonel kicked his boxes under the table (so much for precious cargo, Ed thought). There was already something odd about the house, and the situation; so Ed opted for something familiar: his default attitude of annoyance.

"Are you done? They're dropped off aren't they?"

"And you're still wet," The Colonel said, rather abstractedly.

"How am I supposed to dry off in this freezing house? It's warmer _outside."_

There was an overlarge fireplace dominating one wall of the living room.

"Why don't you just snap and use that?" Ed asked, irritated and freezing.

Mustang's face clouded, slightly.

"I don't use it much anymore," he said shortly.

"Weird," Ed thought.

"Since I won't get any peace until I do," Mustang said, his usual patronizing tone returning, "I'll go start the car."

Ed decided he wanted out of this house. Something about its atmosphere was uncomfortable. So were the chairs, he realized, once he'd flopped down into one. But, as soon as he was sitting down with nothing to do, his thoughts strayed to Al.

"Darn it!" he thought, shifting. He wanted to be doing something. He didn't want to be thinking about Al…without him. Or…or where he was. Ed shook his head. But it _wasn't_ home. They'd burned home just so they would never have to deal with feeling like this. Feeling like dropping work and running home.

Ed shook his head. He was being an idiot. Al _was_ home. And he'd be back soon. His immediate concern wasn't going home. It was getting to his dormitory bed.

When the Colonel returned, a few minutes later, he was disgruntled and streaming water. Ed grinned.

"Enjoying the weather?" he quipped.

Mustang whipped his dripping head around.

"Rain started up again?" Ed's grin widened.

"In good earnest," Roy replied. "To the point where it's not worth the risk to drive in it."

The grin disappeared from Ed's face.

"You have got to be kidding me," he growled.

Sighing, Roy sank into another of the uncomfortable chairs.

"I wish," he replied glumly.

Ed jumped up.

"You're lying! You just want to keep me stranded in the middle of nowhere FOREVER!" he screeched.

Mustang shot him a tired glance.

"You got me. I've always wanted my own personal demon."

Well, Ed decided, if Mustang was going to keep him here, he was going to pay him for it.

"What do you have to eat?" Ed asked, poking through cabinets.

"I don't really know. Knock yourself out," Mustang muttered, putting water on the rather dilapidated stove to boil.

"Sugar. Coffee. Military-packed oats. A potato?" Ed announced the items as he found them. "Is this all? What do you eat?"

"I eat the children I kidnap."

"After you freeze them," Ed responded. "Why can't you turn on the fire?"

Mustang didn't answer, just rummaged in a cabinet and then handed Ed a mug.

"Because I don't. What do you want to drink?"

Ed glanced at the dusty mug and wondered how many decades it had been since it was washed last.

The Colonel reached into one of the boxes that he'd stored under the table, withdrawing a bottle.

Ed made a face.

"Is that beer? You wouldn't take me to the dorms because you wanted to drop off your booze?"

The Colonel shrugged and gave him his usual, superior grin.

"You know it's illegal to take alcohol to the dorms."

Ed couldn't decide what annoyed comment would be appropriate settled on the tried and true.

"B_."

"You have a rather limited vocabulary, Fullmetal," The Colonel observed.

Ed shivered.

"The drinks will be hot", The Colonel said, going through the cabinets. "But what can I give you? The beer's out."

"I'm not a kid," Ed snarled.

"But you _are_ a minor."

"I'm legal. I'm in the freaking military!"

"Maybe I don't want you drunk and throwing up all over my kitchen, Fullmetal," Roy said. "Coffee is also out. The last thing I want is a hyped up Fullmetal Alchemist. How's tea?"

"Beer," Edward said.

"Tea it is," The Colonel said, taking Ed's mug.

"You're the worst host I've ever seen," Ed growled.

"You are something of a surprise houseguest," Roy responded, coolly, pouring water over the leaves. "What were you doing, walking out past the Foreignquarter, anyway?"

Edward remembered his earlier mood and crossed his arms. He'd been exhausted, and missing his brother, and mad at the Colonel who saw fit to send him off and almost get him killed.

"You tell me," Ed grumbled. "You know everything I do, anyway."

Roy shrugged and set the mug in front of Edward.

"Sometimes," he said. "But sometimes you surprise me."

"I wish," Ed thought. He'd give half his pension to see the Colonel surprised.

When Ed glanced up he was startled to see the Colonel watching him, like he still expected an answer.

"What?" Ed asked.

"What were you doing walking out of town, by yourself?" Roy asked calmly. But his eyes stayed on Ed's face. For some reason, he was actually listening to Ed (which was extremely rare).

Ed's eyes slid away.

"Because Al's in Risembool," he grumbled. "Which is all your fault, by the way, you jerk," he thought. But the minute he said it, he wished he hadn't. He'd been trying _not_ to think about Risembool. And Al.

"I'm surprised you didn't go to meet him there, then," Mustang said, calmly, as he fetched a second mug.

"And be flamed by you for not giving you your precious report the second I was back?" Ed snarled.

"Which you didn't."

"I didn't want to go _today_, anyway," Ed muttered, under his breath. But the Colonel had sharp ears. He studied Edward a second, before going back to the drink-preparations at hand.

"Wouldn't be the first, or worst, time you've disobeyed me, Fullmetal," The Colonel said, tone mocking. "I'd think you'd want to be home today."

Ed stiffened. He felt a million of the sensations he always told to scram and felt them all prickling at the backs of his eyes. He glared at the bare bulb on the kitchen ceiling. If you stare at a light hard enough, it burns tears before they appear. But he didn't need it, he told himself. He wasn't going to cry. He would _not_ cry.

"We burned home. You know it," Ed said venomously, not looking at his superior. What he didn't say was, "Why would you bring it up? You, of all people, should know not to." But it was there. And Roy heard it.

He studied the boy at his table, glaring, pointedly at the ceiling. But he was right; he wasn't a kid, not really. Mustang was surprised by how old he looked. How…familiar. Until he realized it was the feeling that was familiar, because it had been his, once.

"So did I," he said.

Ed glanced at him sharply.

"You did what?"

Mustang smiled.

"I burned my home." He tried to make it sound like a joke. But it wasn't; and he felt the smile turn slightly bitter.

Roy suddenly realized he didn't want to meet his subordinate's eyes. But now he could feel them boring into him. Searching for…something.

"Your…house?" Ed said tentatively.

"What, this?" Roy gestured to the room and actually laughed. "I'm afraid not. Although it might could use a good burning."

Ed's face was guarded again. "You weren't talking about the house."

Roy grinned and waved him away. "It's not even mine. It was inherited."

"From who?" Ed wondered. As far as he knew, the Colonel had no family.

"What did you mean then?" Ed asked. And Roy swore he could hear the boy's patience growing thin.

After opening his big mouth, Roy really wished he hadn't. But he knew Edward. When the boy wanted answers, he pounded until he got them (more often than not, he was pounding on Roy's head).

"Home doesn't always mean a house," he shrugged, not really looking at the boy. "It can be a state. A state of mind. A state of being?"

It could be knowing who you were. It could be your view of how the world worked. And it could all end in an instant, along with the scores of civilians you mowed down. Home could shatter. And sometimes you never figured out how to put the pieces together the right way again. So you just left it behind.

Ed stared hard at Mustang, almost willing him to finish the sentence, like somehow that would help him finish a thought he'd never been able to quite understand. He wasn't sure why, but suddenly he felt like the Colonel could answer the question. Like there was something about what the two of them meant, that (although heaven knew it might be the only time), was somehow the same.

Roy glanced up, sure the little he had said sounded idiotic (and equally sure he would hear about it for a week), and not having any idea how to put what was unsaid into words. But when he glanced up, he found Fullmetal's eyes on his face; the intensity of the boy's stare almost startled him. But he never _appeared_ startled. Not to his subordinates. And he wasn't going to start just because of a few stupid, garbled sentences.

So he stared right back. The boy looked like he was searching for something. The Colonel didn't know how long they stayed like that. It was probably only moments; but it felt like ages. Then, apparently, the boy found what he was looking for, and nodded, satisfied.

Ed picked up his mug and gave a half-cocked grin.

"Risembool isn't home anymore, anyway. Al is," he said.

Roy looked into his mug and thought about that for a moment. After the old home didn't fit any more, maybe something else could become home. After Ed's life had been shattered, he'd built a new life, with Al as his home.

After idealism shattered, there was realism. And a goal. And a team. Maybe you couldn't get rid of home, even if you burned it. Maybe you'd just build a new one without realizing that you were doing it. You would think you had nothing to lose; but you did, and it could burn too. Or maybe you would go around thinking you were homeless, when you weren't, not really.

Mustang sat down rather more heavily than he'd intended to, and pored some of the beer into his tea.

"Do you want any, Little Red Riding Hood?" he asked, holding the bottle.

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

For a moment Roy's face went completely blank.

"You—You're coat," he pointed at the bright red garment. "When you wear it pulled up over your head, you look like-are you seriously telling me you've never noticed this?"

Ed's face went red. There was no way he'd always looked like little Red. No way it he_.

"This is the color of warriors and bravery!" he exploded. "Not little girls with cookies!"

Roy's shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

When Ed calmed down enough that Roy was fairly sure the boy wouldn't start jumping on the table, he held out the bottle, again. That took Ed by surprise.

"I thought you said I was a minor," Ed said.

"But not a kid. And anyway, it doesn't matter whether you're a minor or not when you work for the military," Roy shrugged and grinned his usual half-grin. When Ed didn't say anything, he went ahead and pored a bit of the beer into the tea.

Ed sipped the drink, finally starting to warm up. Roy watched him out of the corner of his eyes, part of him wondering if the boy figured into his "home." The home he didn't know he'd built, of his subordinates and plans. Ed hadn't been part of the plan. But he was a subordinate, however annoying and unpredictable he was. And…home was built up by accident, without you realizing, wasn't it?

"Now, if this clears up, I can drive you back tomorrow in time to give me your report by nine," Mustang started.

"No way in he_. This time _I'm _driving," Ed growled. "I don't want to be kidnapped and stranded again."

"And I'm sure you could handle the automobile?" Mustang said, his mocking smile quirking at the corners of his lips.

"Sure!" Ed snarled. "That stick thing shows which direction you're headed and the dial on the far, _far_ left shows how fast you're going and…"

He stopped. Mustang was laughing again.

"Shut up," Ed growled.

"Not tomorrow. But maybe later you can drive," Mustang grinned.

"Wait, really?" Ed said, surprised. "When could I drive? What would I drive?"

Mustang leaned back and smirked.

"My car. And I could show you."

Mustang wished he had Hughes's camera. The shock on Fullmetal's face was priceless.

"What," The Colonel goaded, "Not man enough to drive?"

"FINE!" Ed slammed his mug down. "I'll drive that thing as soon as I can. AND THEN I'LL STEAL IT BECAUSE YOU NEVER USE IT ANYWAY."

Mustang grinned and raised his mug in a toast.

"It's a date then," he smirked. "Sealed on Harvest Thanks, too (maybe that makes it binding)."

Edward looked like he wasn't sure whether to be mad or surprised again.

"You know Harvest Thanks?"

Mustang stood and smirked.

"I wasn't raised all my life in the city," he smirked.

Another thing Ed didn't know about the Colonel. Like his car, or the dusty pictures of the walls, or why the older man had ever taken him on in the first place. But he knew something, something about their sameness that felt surprisingly safe, even if he didn't understand it.

"You can sleep in there," Roy gestured to the living room, complete with an oversized and extremely dusty couch.

"While you get the bed?" Ed glared.

"Naturally," his superior said. "You invaded my house."

"I'll freeze," the boy complained.

"You have a one track mind," The Colonel remarked, glancing at the giant fireplace. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the fireplace. He didn't mind fire; it was his specialty. And, when he was working, in front of soldiers or superiors, he never hesitated to use it. But for some reason, in this oversized house, alone, and at night, the fire only reminded him of other fires. Fires at the front lines of a very ugly war.

He glanced back at his whining subordinate before getting his ignition gloves on and: snap! There was a fire burning comfortably in the hearth.

"Will that do?" he asked, placidly.

The boy muttered something more about B_ Colonels and showing off before moving to the couch.

Roy could deal with the fireplace tonight. He didn't like it alone; but he wasn't going to be at home alone tonight, was he?

Mustang glanced at the boy curling up and complaining about the dust and grinned into his mug. This probably didn't qualify as celebrating. And, even if it did, it was an unorthodox way to observe the holiday. But maybe you could be thankful for more than the Harvest, even if you couldn't put your finger on what, exactly, you were thankful for.

Afterward followed tossing the mugs into the sink, and stowing the beer, and an argument about whether Ed deserved/needed blankets, some insults and cursing, and an "accidental" use of ignition glove followed by the "accidental" transmutation of a particularly hideous lamp into a statue of the Fullmetal Alchemist, before Ed really settled down and Mustang went back to his room.

But the feeling of contentment remained. And for once, the old house didn't feel full of ghosts. It even felt a little bit like a home.

_Author's Notes:_

_This was written on Thanksgiving night, after a zillion relatives piling into my Aunt's house, several games of ninja, and a surprise birthday party for my Grandfather (his 80__th__), which included an extensive slideshow of aforementioned 80 years. That evening, as everyone was settling down, I sat with a feeling of both contentment, and nostalgia. I stole someone else's laptop and wrote for four hours straight, without knowing exactly where I was going._

_Unfortunately, I believe that shows, as the print rambles semi-aimlessly and twisted and turned at rather inopportune moments. There was no clearly stated theme at the beginning, cleanly wrapped up by the end. I suppose it's almost a stream-of-consciousness (four hours of nonstop typing, and no planning whatsoever). So I apologize for the ramblingness, and the lack of any kind of literary structure. Some bits of it make me cringe, now that it is no longer the wee hours of the morning, and I am not (at the moment) writing like a girl possessed. But, maybe in real life, you don't start the evening with a clear theme and wrap it up before you fall asleep. At least, that's what I'm telling myself to try and feel better. ^_-_

_On another note, no I did not study up on early 20__th__ century cars (even though I've driven in one with aforementioned Grandfather plenty of times). But it's Amestris, not Europe. Perhaps their cars didn't match ours to a spot. But a car does need a way to change gears (the "stick" thing); and it usually lets you know how fast you're going (the dial on the "far far left"). _

_Hirumo Arakawa stated that Amestris didn't celebrate holidays like we do because they don't have the same religions (or candy corporations billing for a larger market). However, there is not, and has never been, a people with _no_ holidays. And a Harvest festival is pretty universal (in countries that, you know, actually _have _harvests); and they usually did involve thanking whatever deity the people worshipped, whether it was the Iceni's moon goddess, Dionysus (or any other fertility god of your choice), or the pilgrims' God. The point being, I felt a Harvest festival was justified (but, even if it wasn't, I, unfortunately, wasn't exactly following the rules)._

_The story itself was long and wordy. I realize that now the Author's Notes match. On that note, Happy Late Thanksgiving! (I'll be thankful that you forgive me for all the mistakes and wordiness). Thank you, my lovelies!_

_~TheInkgirl_


End file.
